


How Aaron Burr's Nose Got Like That

by putconspiraciesinit



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Historical RPF, Political RPF - US 19th c.
Genre: Angst, Broken Bones, Gen, Impeachment of Samuel Chase, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Physical Abuse, Politics, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 11:38:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18207809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/putconspiraciesinit/pseuds/putconspiraciesinit
Summary: Burr's death mask clearly shows that his nose was very skewed to the side, but no description prior to around the 1800s really seems to mention that, so the likely explanation is that his nose got broken somehow in the 1800s.The idea of Jefferson breaking Burr's nose is not really historically based, or rather it's no more plausible than "Burr just fell over really hard and broke his nose," but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯





	How Aaron Burr's Nose Got Like That

**Author's Note:**

> Burr's line acquitting Chase at the beginning is an actual quote  
> The news headline and article on Jefferson's death is also an actual quote  
> Old timey newspapers were straight up the most melodramatic thing I swear

“Hence, it appears that there is not a constitutional majority of votes finding Samuel Chase, esq., guilty on any one article. It, therefore, becomes my duty to declare that Samuel Chase, esq., stands acquitted of all the articles exhibited by the House of Representatives against him. Court adjourned.”

Jefferson wouldn’t be able to handwave this without giving away his true intentions to the public, who would certainly respond negatively should such a thing happen; he was trapped. Burr had made a decision he couldn’t overturn, couldn’t cover up, couldn’t veto. It was Burr’s first victory in years, and for a few fleeting seconds, it felt wonderful.

He imagined himself an opponent of Jefferson rather than an underling. A real politician with the power to stand up against even men like Jefferson. Imagined it so vividly he almost forgot the reality of the situation, just for a moment. When he got home that night, Burr was too busy imagining things to think about work the next day, or what might occur as a consequence of Chase’s acquittal.

 

***

 

Jefferson had said there was a cabinet meeting, but when Burr arrived, the room was empty except for himself and the president. Immediately upon noticing this, Burr started to feel as though his heart were rising up into his throat. His face felt unbearably hot. He took a deep breath and spoke in the most calm, collected voice he could muster.

“Good morning, sir! Might I ask where the others all are? I was told there was to be a meeting today.”

“How else, my dear little vice president, should I have convinced you to show your face in my presence after that Chase affair, but by claiming there to be a meeting of the cabinet?” The president’s voice was as soothing as the sound of a child screeching, held as much softness and kindness as the sound of a musket firing. If it was possible for a man to kill another man through tone of voice, Burr would have died with the first word to pass Jefferson’s lips. Every neuron in Burr’s brain seemed to be telling him to run away, but he didn’t dare move. He didn’t even breathe.

Jefferson took a step towards Burr. Burr took a step back. This process repeated a couple of times, faster and faster. Finally, Burr’s instincts got the better of him and he bolted towards the door.

It was locked.

“I knew a coward like you would try to run away,” growled Jefferson. “I informed somebody that you would be arriving here, and asked him to lock the door the moment you did.”

“Oh, God,” Burr whispered.

All at once, Jefferson was upon Burr, one massive hand holding the smaller man’s wrists together, the other grabbing his hair. Burr cried out as his face collided with the hard wood of the door.

“Sir! What are you--” He was cut off as Jefferson once again drove him into the door, with an alarming amount of force. The president did this over, and over, and over again, ignoring the pained sobbing of his subordinate. On around the eighth blow, a sickening _crack_ could be heard, and Burr _screamed_. He could feel a great deal of blood gushing down his face from his nose, which had become completely congested with the stuff. The blows did not cease for several seconds, which felt like several years, until Burr felt as though he had lost all sense of everything and Jefferson’s furious grip was the only thing keeping him upright.

When Jefferson finally relented, Burr immediately fell to the ground, having already lost consciousness.

 

***

 

It did not take too long for Burr to wash the blood from his face, though his waistcoat and shirt were permanently ruined; the coat survived, on account of having been about the color of blood in the first place. The bruises and hematoma disappeared after a few weeks, though they cut the amount of time Burr usually spent outside his house down to less than half, as he did not wish to show his face when such a significant portion of it was red, black, and blue.

When he did leave, he went about everyday life as though nothing were out of the ordinary, his demeanor as cheerful and collected as always. Nobody outside his immediate circle asked, and he was not the slightest bit inclined to bring it up himself.

 

***

 

It was 1826, and Burr hadn’t laid eyes on Jefferson in twenty-one years, since that violently awkward dinner they had had together shortly after his term had ended. Almost everybody from his old life had since passed away; Martin was still alive, but Burr got the sense that wouldn’t last much longer. Nobody tried to assassinate him, very few people jeered at him in the streets. He was using his real name again, no more assumed identities, no more authorities to run from. Burr’s life was relatively peaceful, much as it felt to be slowly drawing to a close.

“Damn those birds, do they truly need to be so loud?” Martin whined.

Burr smiled. “Oh, give the birds a break, Luther. They are not singing at such a volume intentionally to irritate anybody; it is simply what they do!”

“They don’t _need_ to do it. Those flying bastards are giving me a migraine.”

“Would you like to be moved to a different room, where it may be more difficult to hear them?”

“No, this rocking chair is simply too comfortable. I will cease my complaining, however. I simply needed to do a bit of griping, you understand.”

“Of course, dear. I shall fetch some medicine to dull the pain.” As Burr was going to retrieve the bottle of laudanum he kept on his bedside table, he heard a knock on the front door. This was an out-of-the-ordinary occurrence, these days. He made his way to the door, pausing before a mirror in the hallway to ensure that his hair looked alright, and opened it.

“Good day--”

“Are you Mr. Aaron Burr?”

“I am, indeed. Can I help you?”

“Today’s paper. You’ll want to read this.”

Burr took the paper. “Has something happened which concerns me?”

“Not...not directly. I must take my leave, sir, I told my friend I should meet him in about five minutes, good day!”

“Good day, then.”

Burr returned inside, brought Martin his laudanum, sat down, lit a cigar, and finally unfolded the paper.

 

**THOMAS JEFFERSON IS NO MORE!**

_His weary sun hath made a golden set, leaving a bright tract of undying fame to mark his path to a glorious immortality._

_The illustrious Author of the Declaration of Independence breathed his last at Monticello on the fourth of this month, at 10 minutes before one o'clock. On the fiftieth anniversary of the birth of this Nation..._

Burr did not bother to read the rest of the article.

It was 1805 again, and Burr was seated across a table from Jefferson, trying not to be sick.

It was 1802 again, and Jefferson’s propagandists were writing furiously, day and night.

It was 1800 again, and Burr was on a stage, telling the people to vote for Jefferson.

It was 1796 again, and Burr was practically swooning as Jefferson asked him to be his running mate.

It was every year at once after 1805, Burr trying desperately to put himself back together in the aftermath of Jefferson. Some days, he was elated as he remembered he no longer reported to that awful man. Some nights, he cried himself to sleep thinking about the conspiracies and betrayals and the times their working relationship had escalated to violence. Some days, he was moved to tears as he recollected the days before they had come to hate each other, the days they spent as a team. Some nights, he had nightmares where he still worked for Jefferson, where he was trapped under his thumb for eternity. Some days, he didn’t think of Jefferson at all; he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

Absentmindedly, almost involuntarily, Burr brought his hand to his nose; it had been heavily skewed to one side of his face ever since that incident after the Chase trial. He could almost hear Jefferson’s voice again, that voice that was always either derisive or furious. Thirty-one years of Burr’s seventy-year lifetime had been spent connected to Jefferson somehow, and Jefferson was gone for good, and Burr was feeling every emotion at once.


End file.
